


A Loaded Six-String on My Back

by thereweregiants



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Era, Holidays, M/M, Mission Fic, Post-Fall of Overwatch, Pre-Recall, not full crack!fic but in the area, rating is mostly for violence and Moira
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 18:27:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18504595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thereweregiants/pseuds/thereweregiants
Summary: After the fall of Overwatch, a long ago Blackwatch mission is dragged to the light and Gabriel Reyes's former strike team has to reunite and deal with the aftermath.There's a lot more mariachi than anticipated.





	A Loaded Six-String on My Back

**Author's Note:**

> what the fuck even  
> sometimes your main goal is just to make yourself giggle  
> special smooches to [eastwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eastwood) for being the Best Enabler and alternating cheerleading and statements like 'what is wrong with you' and 'why would you write that'
> 
> title from Bon Jovi's [Wanted Dead or Alive](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SRvCvsRp5ho) because why not  
> soundtrack to writing was mostly Glass's Metamorphoses

 

_Now, somewhere in the Eastern Hemisphere_

Christmas music fills the air of the base. Jingle bells echo off the steel walls as artificial pine scent drifts and eventually is sucked into the air filtration system. Stale cookies with too much sugary frosting battle for table space with overcooked mini quiches and spinach puffs that look to have gone through several different types of freezer burn.

The menorah on the table has flares haphazardly shoved into its holders and the limp, bedraggled tree next to it is festooned with strings of grenades. A pile of pulse weapons leaning against a corner has a motheaten strand of tinsel wound around it.

The Annual Holiday Party has come to Talon Headquarters.

\---

Reaper leans against a wall, glass of champagne in hand. Some mid-level goon that Reaper has never bothered to learn the name of sidles up to him.

“So do you use a straw to drink it through the...mask….” he trails off as Reaper slowly turns his head to stare at him. It took some practice to learn how to give varying degrees of threatening glares when someone can’t see your eyes, but he’s quite good at it now. The goon scrambles away in a clatter of Talon armor, muted slightly by the gaudy red holiday sweater he’s wearing. Reaper settles himself back against the wall.

There’s the quiet click of heels and a thread of subtly expensive French perfume to announce her presence, and Amélie tilts an insolent hip to join Reaper against the wall. The glass of champagne in her own hand is untouched.

“Not drinking tonight?”

A throaty chuckle. “You think I would drink this swill? I enjoying ending the lives of others, not my own.” She tips half the glass into the pot of a nearby ficus. Reaper thinks the plant is fake, but if it isn’t then the flat, sour wine that has likely never seen France will probably end up killing it eventually. He shrugs, nods. He wasn’t planning on drinking it either but vaguely felt he should have something in his hands that wasn’t a weapon.

They stand there awhile in somewhat awkward silence. They aren’t friends, but are both high up enough and feared in Talon that they don’t socialize with the lower-level workers. Reaper was almost impressed with the previous kid who had come up and spoken to him - he must be somewhat new still, not have the appropriate fear response installed yet. Reaper would have to work on that. Maybe kill something small and squishy in front of him. A little bit of blood streaking his mask went a long way towards getting people to agree with him.

A looming presence appears out of nowhere at Reaper’s other side. Moira. They’ve worked together in one capacity or another for over a decade now, but there’s a deepset enmity between them. Not to mention it will never stop annoying Reaper in some petty and undefinable way that she’s taller than him. He subtly squares his shoulders, the butter-soft Kevlar-enforced leather swirling silently around his legs. It had taken him months with saddle soap and mink oil to make sure none of his clothing squeaked or creaked.

No one really appreciates the _effort_ that goes into villainy, Reaper feels. You don’t just get dramatic clothing effects without considerable practice and elbow grease.

“I heard that Sombra was going to present something special,” Moira murmurs as she examines a soggy bacon-wrapped piece of unidentifiable flesh, holding it between long fingernails.

“Because that always goes well. Remember the last time she had something ‘special’ for us?” Amélie replies. The cupcakes she had made for them with adorable little Talon logo sugar decorations had nanobots mixed in. Reaper’s acidic blood had burned them out before they could do anything, but she had made Baptiste and Doomfist do a programmed tap routine together that none of them would forget anytime soon.

They’re silent as they consider that, before a wall at the side of the room flashes and turns into a screen, room’s lights dimming. There’s split second screen of a purple sugar skull symbol before Sombra’s smiling face appears. Reaper narrows his eyes behind his mask - there’s a broadness to her grin that he doesn’t like.

“I have a bad feeling about this, darlings,” Moira mutters as Amélie shushes her.

“ _Felices fiestas_ , friends and colleagues!” Sombra says cheerfully. “I am sorry I am not able to attend the holiday party this year, but I wanted to still send a present!” The room tenses, as those who remember the Cupcake Incident glance around nervously. “No party is complete without a little holiday music, so I thought I’d provide some. Enjoy!”

The screen flickers off for a moment, before what looks like security camera footage comes up. Reaper is looking over at the ficus - most of its leaves are now yellowed and some are brown and dying, what the hell was in that champagne? - when a thin-fingered hand grabs his arm.

“Gabriel.” Reaper glares over at her. They’re colleagues that barely tolerate each other, they’re certainly not touching-each-other types of friends. And using his name around others like this? What’s wrong with her? Before he can start in on any of that, he notices how intently Moira is staring at the screen. “Gabriel - do you recognize that subway?”

He glances at the footage, and freezes. As the M train pulls into a stop in Bushwick, a number of people in black and red-accented mariachi outfits file on board, instruments in hand. Reaper wasn’t aware his ruined mouth could go dry, but somehow manages it.

“Oh no.”

 

_Then, a subway car in Brooklyn_

“Are you sure that we’re at the right stop, boss?”

“Stop whining, McCree.”

“I just ask because y’said we were at the right stop forty five minutes ago, and it turned out that it was in fact not our stop. It was in fact New Jersey.”

“If you do not stop talking I swear I will pull my gun out of this trumpet case and shoot you with it. In the face.”

“Genji, why d’you even have a gun, anyways? Wouldn’t your usual shit be more quiet, which I thought was the point of this whole deal?”

“It is a prototype of some sort that the armorer wanted me to try out. And my usual weapons would not fit in this ridiculously small instrument case. As someone who was forced to take shamisen lessons for most of two decades, Reyes, I feel it would have made sense that I have the guitar -”

“It was the only place my shotguns would fit. And I’m running this op, I get to have the guitar.”

There’s a soft rattling sound as Moira crosses her arms. Everyone looks at her as the maracas settle. “Don’t look at me,” she says sourly. “Harp lessons were the only class I ever had less than perfect marks in.”

Gabe sighs and shifts his shoulders, the guitar case moving a bit. He glares halfheartedly over at McCree. “What, no instrument complaints from you?”

McCree shrugs. “I’m the only one who actually know how to play, y’all are just gonna make me look bad.”

“I can play.”

“You said yourself not well.”

Gabe rolls his eyes, before pulling the guitar strap over his head and holding it out to McCree. “Hold this. I’m getting blisters from this case, I swear.” He tugs at the case strap, then frowns. “This should be...heavier.” He pulls it off, turning to set it down on the subway seat. Glancing around to make sure the car is empty - and he can smell something foul that explains _why_ it’s empty - he opens the case to find it bare but for a bag of spare strings, a fifth of something without a label, and a packet of sheet music. There are no guns to be seen.

“Where the fuck is my shotgun.” It’s less of a question than a flat statement of disbelief. “Everyone check your cases.”

“My gun’s gone too,” McCree sounds distressed, but less so than if he’d decided to bring that damn named gun of his on this trash fire of a mission. Glances at Genji and Moira show their cases contain a distinct lack of firepower. This is...bad.

“So remember when we got off at the stop in Jersey and put our stuff down next to that other mariachi band?” McCree offers after there’s a full minute of confused silence.

“You seriously think that we accidentally switched cases with them,” Gabe says evenly as his nails dig gouges in the leather of the case. He allows, mentally, that they may have been slightly distracted by him and McCree arguing loudly with each other over ending up in the wrong state.

“You got a better explanation?”

“No, but now there’s four civilians running around in charro outfits who have a bunch of automatic weapons!”

“They’re all fingerprint locked,” Genji states calmly.

“Not the fucking point!”

Another maraca rattle, as Moira unfolds her arms. “I think the more salient issue at the moment is that we are supposed to assassinate a senator and an unknown number of bodyguards in -” she checks her watch - “roughly three minutes.”

Gabe pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He’s hard pressed to imagine this going worse. First the orders of how they were supposed to be undercover, then the outfits, then the goddamn instruments...he just knew that Jack and Ana somehow had eyes on this and were laughing their heads off.

“Okay. Weapons check?” Everyone checks their pockets of their frustratingly tight outfits.

“A trumpet and six shuriken,” Genji offers.

“Maracas, a stiletto, and several syringes of...something.” All eyes go to Moira, who shrugs in response. “I’m fairly sure it will kill you, whatever it is. I’ve no first aid kit or any biotics though, so don’t get too injured.”

“I’ve got a fiddle, a bow, a .38 with two shots, and a switchblade.” At the collective glare, McCree spreads his hands defensively. “I didn’t have time to reload after the guy this morning, Jesus, stop looking at me like that.”

Gabe goes through his pockets, finding lint and not much else. “And I’ve got a guitar, a couple of punch daggers in my boots, and some steel guitar strings.” The train is starting to slow. “Look alive, everyone. Bodyguards will enter, then the senator, and the guards will try and clear us out. Security should have emptied out the stop, so we’ll be good to take them out as soon as we get them all on.” Gabe tries to figure out how best to do this without any of their usual gear. “McCree, shoot the senator on my signal. Moira, use your...whatever you have, hopefully it works fast. Genji as perimeter cleanup, we don’t want anyone getting away to call for help. I’ll back everyone best I can.”

The train starts to slow. Gabe grabs the fifth and unscrews the cap, not really caring what’s inside. As the cheap tequila burns down his throat he wordlessly holds the bottle out to McCree, who takes his own slug before passing it on to Genji.

“Well, it’s showtime,” McCree says cheerfully as he tucks the fiddle under his chin, everyone making noises of displeasure as they get their own instruments in place.

As expected, three bodyguards in dark suits with gun-shaped bulges at their waists enter first, followed by the white haired senator and six more guards. Four on nine, plus the target. Not bad odds. Gabe is just glad they were able to keep it all confined to a subway, which the senator had to use in order to visit the secret laboratory he was funding. Public assassinations were so tedious, the more they could keep this under cover of darkness the better.

When the senator enters, they start...well, _playing_ might be too strong a word. _Creating noise_ might be closer. McCree actually does know music, surprisingly, although the folktune he’s playing is less mariachi and more something that’d be played around a campfire or on someone’s back porch. Gabe strums a few bar chords in absentminded accompaniment, as Moira makes surprisingly off-tempo maraca shakes. The less said about Genji’s trumpet playing, the better.

After glancing over the group, the guard with the biggest frown on his face makes his way over to Gabe and starts blathering something about needing to move to another car. Gabe puts on his best confused look, asking “ _¿Qué?_ ” every thirty seconds or so. He stalls as long as he can, until the final guard steps inside.

“Genji,” Gabe says quietly, and a shuriken sprouts from the guard’s throat. There’s a second of silence as everyone processes the torrent of blood pouring out, before Moira yanks the man inside the car just as the doors close.

“McCree,” is the next order, and he has the senator down a few seconds later with a neat hole in his forehead and another in his chest, a disgusted Genji just behind him brushing brain matter off the brim of his hat.

Now it’s just cleanup. Two down, eight to go.

Gabe slams his guitar down over the head of the bodyguard in front of him, who had managed to pull his gun. He drops it with a dazed look, and McCree happily snatches the large-caliber weapon up. He coos to it for a moment before taking a shot at the guard coming up from behind Gabe. There’s a minute of pure chaos as the bullet ricochets around the car, everyone ducking the best they can.

“No guns.”

“But -”

“No fucking guns, McCree! Just kill them!” He yanks a dagger out of his boot sheath and tosses it to McCree, who snatches it out of the air and hamstrings the guard with a grumble of discontent. Gabe’s own guard, who he’s been strangling with the strings from his broken guitar, finally goes down, face purple and congested with blood.

Moira bludgeons her chosen guard around the head with her maracas, until she gets bored and just shoves the handle of one of them through his throat. Genji, having discovered that his trumpet is nearly as good as brass knuckles, is now delightedly finishing beating another guard to death with horn-reinforced punches.

Gabe looks up as McCree slits the throat of a man with his switchblade, only to see Genji next to him, now wrestling something away from the woman he’s struggling with. Gabe tries to say something before Genji presses the button on the EMP, but he’s too late.

“God damnit, Shimada.”

“She was trying to contact her superiors, I thought it beneficial to stop her and any others who had the same idea.”

The lights go out with a soft descending whine. “That would make sense, if we weren’t on a damned _subway_.”

“...Oh.”

The car grinds slowly to a stop.

“Anyone still alive?” Gabe pats down the dead guard in front of him, pulling his second dagger out of the guy’s throat and wiping it down on his suit as he goes. He finally finds a flashlight, going from face to face as he looks for signs of life. There’s a pained moan from a man with a syringe in his throat, but Moira efficiently puts the wooden Cuban heel of her boot through the thin bone of his temple.

“Injuries?” Shrugs all around.

“Grab up your weapons, make sure there’s as little blood on you as possible. Take the cases. Moira, get a proof of death photo.”

“EMP, dear.”

“Shit. Well, take a finger, then. Stick it in the tequila bottle for now.”

As everyone cleans up, Gabe forces the subway doors open. They file out, leaving behind a car flooded with blood and littered with broken bodies and shattered instruments.

They trudge single file back to the station, and Gabe hopes that it’ll still be empty when they get there.

“Can we keep the outfits? I look good in this.”

“One more word, Jesse, and I throw you on the third rail.”

 

_Now, at a currently Very Awkward holiday party_

As the screen goes dark and the lights come up, everyone is very pointedly not looking at where Reaper, Moira, and Amélie are. Thankfully only a few people know who Reaper used to be, and they’re wisely keeping their heads down.

“It looked so much worse than I remembered,” Moira finally says.

“Are you talking about your music or the killing, _chérie_ , because both were quite abysmal,” Amélie asks sweetly in response. As the two women start to argue, Reaper eyes his glass of likely-poisonous champagne and debates about drinking it.

“Every time I think I have you figured out, you always surprise me. A musician! How fascinating.” The tone of the deep voice next to Reaper seems to be earnest, but Reaper’s always suspicious when Doomfist gets interested in something.

“I wouldn’t call any of us musicians, to be honest.”

“Nonsense, you were doing quite well up until the bloodshed. It actually gives me an idea.” Reaper doesn’t know what Doomfist wants, but none of this can be good.

“My boyfriend’s son is having a birthday party next week.” Doomfist looks expectant.

“Congratulations?” Reaper says questioningly, after a pause that stretches too long.

“It’s lucha libre themed, he’s rather obsessed with Mexican wrestling right now.”

Oh no.

Reaper shoves a claw into Moira’s side to get her attention. She turns with a snarl, just in time to hear Doomfist say, “So I think you should get your band back together, and play at the party.”

Moira coughs delicately. “Akande, I don’t think you would want that. None of us are trained musicians, we really only played together for about three minutes -”

“Oh, I think it is a delightful idea!” Amélie exclaims, innocent look on her face. “What a lovely birthday that would be for a little boy.”

“I’m glad you think so. The party is next Tuesday, down at our vacation home in Ilios. Just let me know what you need to get it all together.”

“I don’t think you understand,” Moira tries again. “We’re not exactly on good terms with our former teammates.”

Doomfist frowns, lines creasing his broad, handsome face. “Let me be more clear, Dr. O’Deorain. If you want to remain part of this organization - and hence, remain alive - and have any continued financial backing for your research, you’ll do this performance.”

Moira’s mouth opens and closes like a landed fish, and Reaper would take more joy in it if he wasn’t also hauled into this catastrophe. “I’m not really capable -”

“I’m not asking you to sing. You still have your fingers, you can play. I’ll expect you Tuesday.” Doomfist walks off, the pompom at the tip of his Santa hat somehow seeming to bob menacingly.

“Well I simply must attend this party. Do you need a manager?” Amélie says with malice-edged humor in her voice as Reaper and Moira stare at each other in blank-faced frustration.

“Genji’s somewhere in Nepal. He might do it for money, a donation to the Shambali?” Reaper offers finally, a note of defeat in his voice.

“He’s not who I’m worried about, Gabriel.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have taken his goddamn arm.”

 

_Then, but later then the earlier then, somewhere in the Western United States_

“You swear that he still has the tracker on him? That he didn’t ditch it somewhere and is sending us on a wild goose chase?”

“Calm down, Moira. I know what I’m doing. It’s in that gun of his, you know that he never goes anywhere without it.”

Moira settles back into her copilot’s seat, shooting Sombra a suspicious glance as she expertly weaves the small shuttle in and out of ravines. “How did you get it on him in the first place?”

Sombra’s profile splits in a cocky smile. “A girl can’t give away all her secrets, doctor. It helps to know where a man does his drinking, though.”

There’s a beeping that speeds up over the next few minutes as they get closer to the target, and the shuttle touches down just behind a bluff. There’s a shantytown ahead, one of those little places that pops into existence for criminals to trade their profits with each other and then somehow takes root like a weed. Moira recognizes the leather saddlebags hanging off the back of a battered hoverbike parked outside a bar as belonging to her former colleague.

Moira hits a button and the door separating the cockpit from the rest of the transport opens. A half dozen red helmets look at her, eerie in the dim light.

“All right, you know your orders. Grab Jesse McCree. Remove his right arm above the elbow. Apply a tourniquet and notify someone local to call for a doctor after, I don’t want him to actually die from this. Weapons check?” Various gleaming sharp implements, medical paraphernalia, and a biohazard bag are held up. “Good. Signal when it’s done and you’re ready for pickup.”

The cargo door opens and the Talon agents file out and start jogging over to the bar, standing out against the warm desert sand like flies on flan. Moira watches as they troop into the bar and turns to Sombra.

“I would get ready, this shouldn’t take more than a minute or two.” Sure enough, there’s a squawking over the radio not long after, and Sombra zooms over the hill towards the building, cargo door already open and waiting.

The agents rush in, three with gunshot wounds but none life-threatening. The lead agent holds up the biohazard bag, which sags with its bloody contents. Moira smirks a bit as she takes it and settles back in her seat up front.

“So not that I question you mad scientist types, but I do have to know - why on earth do you need his arm?” Sombra says, her eyes on the bag as much as the terrain ahead of them as they rise into the air.

Moira smiles, fingers massaging the still flexible flesh inside the bag. “Jesse McCree, despite his many, many flaws, is the best marksman I have ever seen. I am currently working on developing a flesh matrix to cover omnic structure, the appearance of humanity with none of the pesky limitations. By dissecting his arm, seeing exactly how all of those talented little tendons and muscles link together, I’ll have a better understanding of how to replicate it mechanically.” She flips the bag over, clear plastic side up

“You’re a special kind of creepy, you know that, _chica_?”

“I don’t particularly care what others think of me, not as long...as…” Moira trails off, as she looks down into the bag. The fingers of her right hand trace over the blood-splattered tattoo, line up with the still-gloved hand in a parody of tenderness. Her face pales, two spots of color high on her cheeks. Getting to her feet, she slams the button to open the door to the cargo hold.

“Which one of you removed the arm?” Moira’s voice is dangerously flat. There’s a Talon agent just to her left that doesn’t move, but everyone else’s helmet tilts towards him.

She stalks over, hand clenched around the elbow joint of McCree’s arm. His _left_ arm. “You removed the wrong. Bloody. Arm! You absolute imbecile, he is right handed! _You take the arm with the fucking gun in it!"_

Moira hits the cargo hold door lever. It slides back, klaxons going off at the loss of cabin pressure. Shifting her grip downwards slightly, Moira yanks the agent up and backhands him with McCree’s severed arm, sending him pinwheeling into two thousand feet of freefall. As his scream dies away into the clouds, Moira closes the door back up.

Smoothing her disheveled hair with a hand shaking from anger, Moira takes a deep breath and turns back to the five agents still in the ship. “Do I need to discuss with any of you how to tell your right from your left? Should I hire a primary school teacher along with our weapons trainers?” Their heads are shaking in negation so enthusiastically it’s making her nauseated. “Oh, stop it. I’m not going to kill any of you now. The moment’s gone.”

Stalking back into the cockpit, Moira folds her limbs up into the seat as she sets the arm down on the dashboard in front of her, resting her own arms on her drawn-up knees. She stares at it bitterly. All that work, for nothing. And she’s not going to go back and get the right arm - she may have a distinct lack of morals but she’s not _cruel_.

“Aww, _pobrecita_. Problems, I take it?” Sombra says, the humor in her tone just barely stifled.

“Just fly this thing back,” Moira says tiredly. You just couldn’t hire good help these days.

 

_Now, still at the Continuously Awkward holiday party_

“No.”

“Did you not hear him? He’ll pull my funding! I’ll have to go back to working for Oasis, or even worse - _academia_ .” Moira grabs onto the lapels of Reaper’s coat, eyes wide and frantic. “I cannot deal with undergraduates, Gabriel! They think evolution is a myth! They think the blood in veins is blue! They change their margins and put their periods in fourteen point font and think I won’t _notice_!”

Amélie sighs and pulls out her tablet. “Calm down, Moira. I might be able to help.” Reaper and Moira both look at her quizzically. “I have Genji’s number. We had some history, long ago.” She walks off, tapping rapidly at the screen.

Reaper considers. “They both come from wealth, and Genji knew Gérard. Not a total surprise there that she might have his contact information.” He shakes Moira’s hands off. “Which leaves us with McCree.”

Moira folds her arms. It takes some time, there’s a lot of arm there to fold. “He was your boytoy, back then. You find him.”

Shaking his head, Reaper steps back and spreads his hands. “That’s long in the past. He thinks I’m dead now, anyways. You’re the one who should be apologizing to him, in any event. You mutilated him.”

“He got it back. Eventually.”

“No thanks to you.”

 

_Then, a little later on from the Arm Debacle, in a Talon lab late at night_

Moira is perched on a table, staring at the vitrine full of golden biotic-infused fluid in front of her. The skin of the inner forearm of McCree’s removed limb has been split and flayed, delicate pincers and spreaders separating skin from fat from muscle, a labyrinth of white nerves and red arteries and pale tendons and dark veins. The body is a puzzle, one that Moira has made it her life’s work to master. Her focus on the corporeal riddle in front of her is strong enough that she doesn’t hear the door to her lab crack open.

“Maximilien wants to see us, something about the accounts from the mission in Monaco,” Reaper says as he materializes next to her. Moira doesn’t jump, but only because she manipulated her startle reflex down years ago.

“Tell him to talk to Sombra, she’s the one who managed all of that,” she says distractedly.

Reaper sighs, the sound of wind blowing through dead tree limbs. “It would be helpful if you actually participated in operations instead of hiding out in your laboratory all the time.”

She waves a hand at him like he’s a troublesome fly. “I am working to create a perfect human-omnic hybrid, Gabriel. You know I’m only here for the funding, I’ll play their games only as much as I need to.”

Reaper circles the virtine, head cocked. “What are you working on now, dissecting some other poor soul?” He stops abruptly, turning his body so as to read the stretched out lettering on the remains of the arm.

“Moira.”

The quiet rage in his voice cuts through her thinking, and Moira suddenly realizes the inadvisability of studying a man’s dissected arm right in front of his former lover.

There are a thousand ways to kill with the instruments in Moira’s lab, but Reaper only needs one. A few minutes of violence-filled chaos later he’s holding a razor-sharp shard of the shattered vitrine to her throat as he pins her down on a morgue table, the cuts dotting her skin from glass shards healing preternaturally fast from the biotics in the fluid soaking her.

“Give me one reason,” he says, and for the first time in her life Moira finds herself truly afraid of the man who was once Gabriel Reyes.

“He’s still alive! I swear to you he’s still alive.”

The glass shard moves away by a millimeter. “Explain.”

“I wanted to figure out what made him so accurate, try and incorporate it into my design. The moron agents took the wrong arm, but they tied off the wound and got a doctor for him. I checked in a while later and he already had a prosthetic. He’s fine, he’s fine, please take that away from my throat now.”

Reaper backs off just a fraction. “You’re a fool.”

“I beg your -”

“Accuracy is in the brain. There is muscle memory, but it’s far more dedication, practice, and the eye’s ability to compare distances. You never bothered to get to know him, you never saw all the hours he put in keeping his skills sharp. Doesn’t matter which arm you took, it’s useless for your needs.”

Moira frowns. She knows he’s right, knew it even before she took the arm. She can’t build effort, though, can’t build motivation. All she can create is the scaffolding and hope that it will be enough.

“Tough luck, Frankenstein. Nice to see an example of your monstrosity.”

“Frankenstein was the scientist, not the monster,” she says, aware of her petulance.

“Then you missed the point of the book.”

He takes the arm with him.

\---

“You look pensive, Gabe.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Gabe, or pensive?”

“Take your pick.”

Sombra hoists herself up on the edge of the balcony where Reaper is standing, shivering exaggeratedly. “It’s winter. Why are you out here instead of in the nice warm lounge?”

“It’s a no smoking area. They banned me.”

“Cute.” She nudges an armored hip with her foot. “Still doesn’t answer my question.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “If you had something that was stolen from someone, you didn’t take it but now you have it, would you give it back?”

“Was it something important to them?”

There’s a rough sound that it takes Sombra a moment to place as laughter. “You could say that.”

“Then give it back. Is this someone you know?”

“I used to.”

She shrugs artlessly. “It’s the holiday season. Wrap it up, send it as a present.”

“A...present.”

“Come on,” she says, boosting herself off the railing. “What you need is in one of the supply rooms.” Reaper follows her to an unassuming door that when opened shows the equivalent of an entire office supply store crammed into a hallway. “Look for a yellow box,” she orders before diving in.

After several minutes of poking, Sombra gives a shout. “ _Mira_ , come see what we have. How big is this thing?” Reaper sketches the shape out roughly with his claws. “Here’s a box, here’s some paper, tape. Martinu over in the logistician’s office can weigh it up and post it for you.” Reaper nods in thanks, takes the supplies and glides out.

Sombra follows out of sheer curiosity. Reaper stops by the kitchen, pulls a bag that’s fogged with moisture out of a fridge. He grabs a few dry ice blocks from a canister sitting by the dishwasher that says in large letters ‘Use for ice cream, not organs!’, clawed gloves easily holding them without harm.

They stop by a table, Reaper laying out his materials. He eschews scissors in favor of an enormous knife pulled from seemingly nowhere, easily slicing paper to wrap the box up neatly. The last thing he does is to nestle the dry ice blocks amongst the festive tissue paper in the box, before gently placing the bag inside. The moisture has cleared enough that Sombra can see what it is. It’s the arm that Moria took just a few weeks ago.

Her eyes move slowly from the severed limb up to Reaper’s masked face, which is lowered in concentration as he carefully writes on the lid, “Sorry, she didn’t know any better.”

“Every time, you people are all so much weirder than I remember,” she murmurs as he ties the whole thing together with a bow, stripping the ends of the ribbon between his claws to curl it.

 

_Then, 5 - 7 business days later, a signal bounced between satellites on Christmas Eve_

“Hey there, partner. How you doing?”

“I am well. Happy Christmas, McCree.”

“Thanks, you too. Listen, I wanted to know - have you gotten any odd packages lately? Maybe ones that contained body parts?”

“I did receive a packet last week from an old friend of the family. Several fingers and an ear, some kind of decades old debt that they wanted to clear.”

“Jesus, Genji, no. I mean like your own body parts.”

“I have roughly thirty percent of my body remaining to me, cowboy. Do you think I am so absent-minded as to misplace any more of it?”

“Sorry for askin’, good lord.”

“I take it you were given something of the sort?”

“Yep. Might’ve lost an arm a bit ago. And I just got it back. Picked apart a bit, but it’s mine all right.”

“...Picked apart.”

“Yeah, I know. Feels like somethin’ _she’d_ do. But getting it back, and with an apology note? Not exactly her style.”

“Perhaps she felt moved by the spirit of the season.”

“Doubtful. Especially because it’s not her handwritin’, either.”

“Whose is it?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Hell, might be hallucinatin’ it anyways.”

“Always a possibility with your alcohol consumption. Are you going to reattach it?”

“You kiddin’ me? Knowing Moira it has all sorts of weird shit shoved in there, I’m gonna burn it to ash and dump it in my asshole neighbor’s swimmin’ pool. And why the hell would I give up this prosthetic? It’s great - strong as hell, I can tear through metal, and it has a vibrating function.”

“Classy as ever, McCree.”

“Why, thank you.”

 

_Now, Talon HQ, a few days after The Party_

“Genji has agreed to participate, dependent upon a large donation to the Shambali.”

“Really. How did you manage that, exactly?”

Amélie waves it away with a careless hand. “I played it off as a job. I’m fairly certain he’s planning on trying to kill me, however. Apparently he is still upset about Gérard.”

“Hmph.” Moira makes a grudging noise of thanks, and glances over at Reaper. They somehow manage to have a wordless argument even though one of them is masked, and finally she throws up her arms. “Fine, fine. I’ll get a hold of him.”

“It’s two days away.”

“I’m aware. Don’t worry, I’ll have him in time.

\---

“Do you still have that tracker on Jesse McCree?”

A delicately arched eyebrow arches even higher on the tablet screen. “Hello, doctor. Nice to see that your manners have not improved.”

Moira rolls her eyes. “Out of the two of us, I should be the angry one. You embarrassed me in front of the whole organization.”

“You embarrassed yourself, _chica_. And don’t be too angry, your ass looked great in those pants.”

“Sombra. Tracker. McCree.”

“I don’t know, to be honest, it’s been a few years since I’ve checked it. I know where he is this time of year, though. Why do you ask?”

“I need to borrow him for a day.”

“You borrow things, doc. Not people.”

“Ask me if I care. Now can you help me?”

Sombra leans back in her chair. “And what do I get?”

“Oh no, this is all your fault. Reaper and I wouldn’t be in this position if it wasn’t for you.”

Giving a sniff full of meaning, Sombra nods slightly. “Fine. But only because of Reaper. When do you need him by?”

“Tomorrow evening at the latest.”

“Meet me at the safe house tomorrow in Dorado, five local time.”

\---

Moira stands outside the bar, using specialized glasses liberated from R&D to zoom in the small window.

“It certainly looks like him.”

“It is him.”

“And you can get him out here?”

“Give me ten minutes and wait for us to exit.”

Sombra’s hair is hidden under a hat, a bit odd-looking but not conspicuous in this part of town where it seems like every other person is wearing a disguise. She walks in, looks around for a minute, and has a conversation with someone Moira can’t quite see. She slinks into a corner, the man she was talking to now moving over to talk to McCree.

Moira doesn’t miss the fact that the man is tall and good-looking, dark hair and sharp cheekbones and a goatee. She’d roll her eyes at the obviousness of the lure if it wasn’t just as obviously working on McCree, who’s straightened in his seat in interest. A few minutes and one doctored drink later, McCree is wobbling in his chair. Sombra helpfully assists him to the door, and Moira joins her in the street, taking half his weight. He smells of stale alcohol and fresh tobacco, his beard unkempt and his serape faded. He’s not the same man Moira last saw in person five years ago.

They take him back to the Talon base in Ilios, Moira having figured it’d be easier to transport him like this. He’s strapped down, bound to a chair and snoring. Bored of waiting around, Moira tosses a glass of water in his face and is met with blinking and spluttering.

She waits a minute as he blinks the water out of his eyes. Bleary eyes look around before finding Moira and blinking into laser-sharp anger. “Moira.”

“Jesse.”

“So what’s this all about, huh? Settlin’ old scores? Wanted to get revenge once and for all? You come back for the other arm? Yeah, I know that was you.”

Moira knew he would be angry, but hadn’t quite anticipated the sheer fury in front of her. She finds herself grateful she went for the metal cuffs instead of just rope. “Oh, no no. I wouldn’t be so cruel. I’m here on behalf of some old...colleagues. We were requested by my commander to get the old gang back together, do one last performance.”

McCree’s face changes slowly from anger to confusion. “Beg pardon?”

He tries to keep watching as Moira moves around him, but his head is strapped down. She leans forward, warm and oddly antiseptic breath brushing his ear. “New York City,” she murmurs. “Six years ago.” McCree’s eyes widen, a bead of cold sweat  inching its way down his temple.

“Oh yes, Jesse McCree. We’re playing mariachi.”

 

_Still at the Talon Base in Ilios, the next day_

Reaper is tucked into a corner of the hangar, watching the two hooded and bound figures in the center of the area. Somehow in the back of his mind he’d been hoping to get through this without things changing much, but he knew that could never happen. He knew that eventually it would come to this.

Amélie comes up behind them and pulls the hoods off, leaving McCree and Genji to blink at Moira in the dim light. Well, to blink as much as Genji can - every bit of him is covered in metal now, his eyes hidden by a green-lit visor.

“Why Moira, what a surprise,” Genji says flatly. “I knew I shouldn’t trust Gérard’s murderer, but I was hoping not to see you again for quite awhile.”

“It’s not by choice, I assure you.”

“Why are we here, then?”

“I’m sure you recall when we had to go undercover and kill Senator Imber in New York, some years ago.” Moira waits for Genji’s nod before continuing. “Our leader saw surveillance footage of the operation. He has insisted on our team reuniting and performing,” she winces as she talks, “at his boyfriend’s son’s Mexican wrestling themed birthday party this evening.”

There’s a long, long minute of silence as McCree and Genji wait for Moira to give any indication that it’s a joke. The look on Moira’s face gives lie to that, though.

“And if we decline?” Genji finally says, carefully.

“Then likely the two of you will be executed. Worse, I’ll lose my financing and have to start applying for grants.” Moira shudders.

“All of this is moot, because we’re missing a person,” Genji says.

Reaper tenses.

“Oh, no. We’re not. I’d been tryin’ to figure it out, you know? Knew he was still alive but couldn’t quite parse where he’d gone, how he’d kept his head down because you know that’s not his style.” Reaper wants to feel surprise at the absolute bitterness in McCree’s tone, but on some level he realizes he deserves it. McCree raises his voice, glancing around the best he can in his restraints. “Where are you, Gabe? Never thought you’d go over to Talon, but I guess you never really know a man.”

Reaper dissolves, becoming a streak of smoke that rushes forwards until it solidifies next to Moira. He watches the realization on McCree’s face, watches him rush through a dozen emotions in half that many seconds.

“Hey, babe,” Reaper says, his voice a deadpan rasp.

“You don’t get to call me that. I should kill you where you stand.”

Reaper tilts his head. “You’re welcome to try. Died once. Didn’t take.”

McCree narrows his eyes, visibly thinking of and discarding a dozen responses. Finally he moves his glare from Reaper to Moira. “So what, our choices are to die or do a little song and dance? Usually there’s a carrot to go along with the stick, you know.”

Amélie saunters up, tablet in hand. “I’m authorized to provide you with payment upon completion of the performance.”

McCree is nearly speechless from incredulity. “You - fuckin’ - seriously, Gabe? She killed Gérard! Your friend! And you goddamned work with her?”

“It’s not a requirement to like colleagues. We worked with Moira, after all.”

McCree and Genji nod in considered agreement as Moira’s lips thin. “This is all a lovely reunion, but I would like it if we could all get out of here in one piece.”

“I’d like that too, Moira. Oh wait, I’ll never be in one piece because you took my fuckin’ arm!”

“It was years ago, Jesse. Let us move on, let bygones be bygones.”

McCree has his mouth open to snap something back when Amélie cuts him off with a recited number. He pauses, considers.

“Hm. Is that total?”

“Each.”

There are enough zeroes that it’s unsurprising that McCree and Genji exchange a glance. Neither is living high on the hog these days, and it wasn’t like Blackwatch gave them a pension. McCree hasn’t stayed clean these past few years and Reaper knows his bounties just keep going up.

“We’re in.”

Amélie moves towards them, but Moira holds up a hand. “All personal issues on hold until this is over.”

McCree’s eyes go from Moira to Reaper and back again, but he gives a tight nod.

Reaper vanishes before the cuffs are unlocked.

 

_Outside a suburban household in Ilios, the air filled with children’s screams, hopefully of delight_

The costumes...could be worse. They’re black and silver with red accents, an obvious Talon reference as well as perhaps a callback to the outfits they’d worn all those years ago. Reaper quite likes the skull emblems on the upper arms, though he thinks the skull-like guitar is a little on the nose. Sombra found him a mask to go along with everything, though it makes him feel a bit like a child’s toy she’s dressing up.

He puts off seeing everyone as long as he can, claiming a side mission to Moira. She probably knows he’s lying, but in a rare moment of compassion she doesn’t press it. He arrives at four on the dot, the other three already there and waiting.

Reaper cocks his head at the sight of McCree’s metal fingers wrapped around the neck of the fiddle. He knew that McCree’s arm was gone, had even held the limb himself, but it’s something else to see the metal emerging from the sleeve of his suit. “Can you still play?”

McCree looks at him, meets the black pits of his eyes. “Does it matter?”

Not really, no. This whole affair is a farce. The former deadly black ops team of killers trudge up the walkway, ready to degrade themselves for money and their lives.

\---

It starts out strange, and just gets worse. Doomfist’s boyfriend is, surprisingly, an omnic. As is his...son.

“How do you have a child as an omnic? Hell, why would you even have an omnic child? And why a six year old?” McCree mutters to Reaper as he runs his bow over the strings. Everyone has set aside their various animosities towards each other in the face of confused solidarity. “Does he have the intelligence of a child, or…” He’s cut off by a metallic screeching sound coming from the birthday boy.

The guest of honor is less than enchanted with their admittedly abysmal performance.

He might be a child in the boyfriend’s view, but he’s definitely weaponized. Pulse fire erupts from his eyes, popping balloons and setting the curtains on fire. Genji moves to subdue him, which upsets Doomfist’s boyfriend. Now there are two angry omnics in play, and the former Blackwatch team confusedly dodges shots as they try and make their way towards an exit.

At hearing high pitched screams, Reaper smokes out and appears next to a clump of scared human children in party hats that are huddled in a corner. He gathers them up the best he can, hustles them to a door that leads outside.

Reaper may be a monster, but he’s not monstrous.

As soon as the room is empty but for omnics and mariachi players, Reaper finds himself calling out old signals, for retreat and regroup. Genji expedites the process by shattering a window with his trumpet, and he and Moira squeeze out that way. Reaper is about to exit through a side door when some sixth sense makes him turn his head. The child omnic is holding out a hand that’s in the process of powering up, and it’s pointed right at McCree’s back. Reaper streaks over, rematerializing just in time to knock McCree out of the way of the pulse cannon blast.

They clutch each other for balance as they stumble out the door, looking around frantically until a green signal flash from a street over shows where the rest of the team has hunkered down. Reaper and McCree sprint over to large minivan, Genji, Moira and Amélie having taken shelter on the leeward side.

Amélie calmly holds a tablet out to McCree. “Account number, please.”

He looks at her in wild-eyed bewilderment. “What?”

“Account number, McCree. At the moment I don’t think Doomfist is aware of what happened, but I doubt I’ll be able to get you your payment once he knows,” she replies.

He shakily taps the number in before collapsing to sit splay-legged on the ground. Pulling his hat off, McCree scrubs his hand through his hair. A look of discomfiture crosses his face as he realizes that he’s leaning up against Reaper, but shakes it off in tired resignation as he rests more of his weight on the broad shoulder next to him.

Reaper doesn’t move, unsure of how he feels about the situation.

After Genji types his own number in, Amélie spends a moment pulling up Moira and Reaper’s information that Talon has on file. She hits a button with purpose before slipping her tablet in a hideously expensive leather bag. “Payment is rendered for you all.” She glances down at Moira and Reaper. “I might stay away from headquarters for a while.”

Moira flaps an uncaring hand. “He wanted a performance. He got a performance. Not our fault the little brat decided we weren’t to his taste.”

Amélie rolls her eyes before walking over to a black hovercar and driving away.

Genji cocks his head. “That was the vehicle we arrived in.”

Sighing, McCree levers himself to his feet using Reaper’s shoulder. “Give me a sec.” Five minutes later the former Blackwatch squad straps themselves into the minivan that McCree hotwired, driving away from the house in suburbia that now appears to be on fire.

\---

They end up in a bar, a dive one because McCree is navigating. They file through the door one by one, ripped mariachi uniforms and blank expressions warning away questions. Sitting at the bar, McCree orders everyone their usual drinks out of habit. They sit in silence for a while, four bedraggled and battered figures sipping alcohol and pondering their lives.

“You saved those kids,” McCree says finally, turning his head slightly to address the shadowy figure next to him. Reaper shrugs.

McCree turns his head a little more, looking him up and down. Reaper wonders what he sees, if there’s anything he still recognizes of the man he once loved.

“You saved me.”

Reaper shrugs again, tilting his mask up to take a sip of scotch. Neat, single malt. Same as always. As much as his body has changed, much of Reaper hasn’t. His likes, his preferences. He glances over at McCree, whose head is tilted back as he downs his bourbon, tan neck long and tempting. Some things just get hardwired into a man, even when he’s no longer quite a man.

Genji sets down his empty bottle of Kirin and a few bills. “We are done, yes?” At Moira’s gesture indicating ‘who the hell knows’ he stands and pushes his chair in. A clap on the shoulder for McCree, a nod to Reaper, and he’s gone.

“That was a yes on the bein’ done, correct?” McCree asks Moira.

She turns to him in irritation. “Yes, McCree. The performance is done, you were paid.”

Reaper doesn’t flinch at the crack of bone on bone, just glances down to see Moira on the floor holding her jaw. McCree shakes his hand out. “And that was for my arm,” he says calmly.

“I think you broke it, you bastard -”

Ignoring Moira, McCree turns, cocking a hip and hooking his thumb behind his belt. He meets Reaper’s eyes frankly. “There enough of you left under there to still fuck?”

Reaper shrugs for a final time, before setting his empty glass down and standing. McCree hands a fistful of bills to the bartender, receiving in exchange a key to one of the rooms for rent upstairs. Reaper follows him up as Moira carefully levers herself up off of the floor, holding the side of her face with a careful hand.

“You need any medical help there, ma’am? Or the police?” the bartender asks warily.

“No, no. Just another glass of white, please.” She considers a moment. “With a straw.”

Moira sits at the empty bar in Ilios, wearing a battered mariachi outfit and cradling her chin. She moves her glass to the side as a trickle of dust falls from the ancient wooden beams of the ceiling. The rhythmic squeaking of the bed upstairs provides a counterpoint to the throbbing of a developing migraine and the pain of her jaw.

There’s a beep from her tablet as she sucks the last of her wine through the straw. _Explain yourself_ , it reads, and Moira doesn’t have to scroll down to know it’s from Doomfist.

Moira asks for another glass, wincing as she opens her mouth a little too far, and contemplates how bad academia really would be.

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading come yell at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/thereweregiants)


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